Friday, August 12, 2016


Actually it’s twenty five minutes to seven
Going to draw these words out of my veins like an unholy confession
I’m guilty of something as I wait for her to call, quit or denounce me for all my sins of conflagration

And the words sometimes pour out like unsweetened evaporated milk
Other times the words chitty chitty bang bang from me like a bowel movement gone wrong
It’s the price of being free and owning up to nothing including the responsibility I continue to evade

They think it’s a piece of cake dog paddling down these streams of consciousness
They believe either the war will be won or at the very least all these battles will not have been in vain
And I’m sick and I’m tired, but I refuse to go down easy because even an idiot wind is right twice a day

Charles Cicirella

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